Broken Whistle
by The Lone Ice Rose
Summary: I kill Blues (Protoman) in the arguably most sadistic and horrifying way possible. Don't read this if you can't handle the depression.


Broken Whistle

I am going to kill Blues (Protoman) here, so if you are not okay with that then leave. NOW.

For those who are still here, this takes place before/during Mega Man 3.

Blues fingered the gun slowly, contemplating his fate. There was nothing left for him here. There was no reason to keep living like this. Light had already shown he had traded Blues in for something better and Wily could do his schemes without his help. He'd be better off floating in darkness for eternity than living in this world of hate, jealously and hurt; his own personal hell. If he wanted to end this, he had to do it now. This was the end of the road.

He watched the cars pass by as he stood on the outskirts of town. If someone wanted to stop him, they would've pulled over, knocked the gun out of his hand, dragged him into their car, and driven him back home, wherever that was.

But no one did. Because no one loved anymore. What was love? Hugging someone, caring for their well being? Making sure they were safe at home? Well, then, there was no love for Blues. No more love for the broken, battered, lonely robot. What a cold world this was. This wasn't a world worth living in.

A stray paper blew against his leg and Blues picked it up. It was an ad for duct tape. He smiled grimly. If only duct tape could really fix everything. Could it fix a broken father-son relationship? Could he build a bridge out of duct tape to cross that rift between them? If he could, he would have a long time ago and run across it without looking back. But now that fissure had grown too wide to cross, too broad to create any flimsy bridge, a vast gaping scar on whatever remained of his weeping soul.

Suddenly, he had an idea. It seemed fitting for his last mark on this dismal, cruel world to be this. He took a pen out of his pocket, one of the many stray things he had accumulated after years of traveling. He set the paper up against a nearby signpost and began writing.

_Dear Dad,_

_I love you, even if you don't return that love. Maybe it's just because of memories, but I think it's the only reason I haven't done this yet. Just remember, I love you. __Always._

_Your son,_

_Blues_

He underlined 'always' twice and felt his vision begin to blur. He had to do this now, or he would chicken out and he would live the rest of his pathetic life in this miserable existence, with long ago memories taunting him with every step he took.

He took off his helmet and gently tucked the note inside. He was ready. He was done. And soon, he would be free. This was the only way out.

He put the gun up to his head.

Cars zoomed past, turning into a multicolored blur before his eyes.

He closed his eyes, engulfing himself in darkness. He welcomed the inky black silence with pleasure. It was a world without existing. A world without light. In more ways than one.

His mind played memories at a rapid pace. Activation, shades, scarf, weapons, running, saving, crying, hope, broken. And that's where the images ended. On a shattered heart, the pieces never able to fuse themselves back together in quite the same way. Fitting.

He slowly put pressure on the trigger and inhaled his last breath. Then, he started to whistle for what was the last time, and you could've sworn the whole world sighed as the notes echoed through the air for a final melody of salvation and solitude.

"Goodbye world." He thought. "You taught me more than I could ever hope to know."

And then came the bang that still rang in his ears like the chorus of drums. Only silence and a bland landscape drained of color followed. And in the far distance, the smallest pinprick of light.

About a week later_

Dr. Light didn't know exactly how he received the news, and it didn't really matter. Apparently, Blues had been on the side of the road for some time now. The doctor forced himself to take his truck down to the spot and investigate. He probably would have collapsed at the sight if he hadn't been holding on to the frame of the door.

Blues looked peaceful, as if he was simply sleeping and would wake up any moment now and start whistling his tune.

The thing that pained the most inside Dr. Light's heart was this robot, who he hadn't seen in so long was right before him and it was as silent as a tomb. His heart seemed to be beating out the same two words, 'Too late, too late.'

It was amazing how a piece of metal, a jumble of technology, could make him cry. And he was crying, Light admitted, it was either that or there was an invisible sheen of water was separating his eyes from the rest of the world.

After about an hour of just standing and sobbing, he finally managed to stagger over to Blues's limp body and drag it into the back of the truck. He didn't bother to be gentle either. The doctor took his newfound anger out on the body, the empty vessel, and dumped it into the bed of the truck. Blue's head slammed into the metal bottom so hard that his helmet bounced off.

Light paid no mind to the sickening crunch that omitted from the back and hopped into the drivers seat, where he cruised all the way home, going more than a little faster than the speed limit.

When he finally did get home, Rock and Roll were standing at the front entrance, looking sick with a strange sort of anticipation.

Light, painfully, proceeded to tell them, and it was all he could do to not crumble in the face of their shock and sputtering words.

Somehow, they struggled through those searing seconds of tears and questions and forced memories that were more painful every time Light tried to drag them out for the children.

After those jagged, piercing minutes, the children retreated inside so they could think on their own. Light, meanwhile, went back out to the truck. He only intended to take three things, the scarf, the helmet, and the IC chip, or whatever remained of it.

He knew he had to make calls, organize some sort of makeshift funeral, slog through the legal red tape and wrap up the loose ends of an old frayed rope of a life. But right now, he just wanted to be with his boy. His complicated, impulsive, perfectly imperfect little boy.

He meandered on over, his previous anger draining with every step. Dr. Light looked over his fallen son and wanted to spontaneously curse him and hug him at the exact same time. It was a queer roller coaster of emotions, and the doctor already knew he didn't need any apologies because you can't be sorry for something you can't stop. He was already dreading the sympathetic conversations and the hugs, oh Asimov, the hugs. No one knows what you're going through, and half the time even you don't know.

He proceeded to take the helmet and scarf. Since he noticed the bullet hole through Blues's head he doubted he could salvage the IC chip. He wasn't sure if he even wanted it in the first place. It was where all their troubles had seemingly began, and it was fitting that it was broken when their troubles ended.

He sighed a particularly heavy waft of air and held the scarf up to the sunlight, trying to keep from crying. He remembered the day he bought that scarf for Blues. Light remembered how he was beaming with pure delight as he wrapped it around his neck for the first time. Ah, those innocent, golden days. Nothing but fading, threadbare memories now, just like the scarf that was attached to it.

Dr Light hefted the piece of beloved cloth in his hand, and he could practically see Blues on the other side, smiling, for once. He could only hope he was in a better place, no matter how violent a death he had.

He shifted his attention to the helmet. He gingerly touched the pice of battered and bruised metal. In other circumstances he would have polished it up and added a new paint job. But it was a relic of the past, and it deserved to be preserved now, scratches, rust, and all.

He cradled the helmet in the crook of his arm like a baby when something rustled inside it. Light gently turned the helmet so that the open part faced the sky. Sure enough, there was a dingy piece of paper tucked carefully just behind the visor.

With shaking fingers, he plucked the paper out and opened the note. It was a note addressed to him. As his eyes tripped and flew over the words again and again, his vision began to blur. The note fluttered out of his numb hands and landed safely on the asphalt.

He knew he would never know exactly why Blues killed himself. There would always be stray questions that would always tug at the corners of his mind, like 'Weren't we enough?', 'Did he even think of us?', 'Did we matter to him?' and just plain old 'WHY?' Light could only try and hope to pick up the broken pieces he had left behind.

He also knew that the pain in his heart, although it would eventually subside, would never truly be gone. It would just simply get buried under millions of other memories.

And the last thing he knew, although he could never be quite sure was that someday, maybe in a year or twenty, things might be a little bit better. He thought of Blues on the other side of the scarf, watching him lovingly. He hoped he had found answers and maybe some comfort. Hopefully he was regretting his decision. Maybe then, in the distant, unforeseen future, things would be a little bit better for both of them.

**Okay, first of all, NEVER COMMIT SUICIDE! There is nothing in the world I am more serious about. I really don't want this pushing people over any edges. I just had to write this out because I had to. I sort of poured myself out here and took all my random thoughts and smashed them all into one big thing. And I'm sorry I took it all out on Blues. I'm sorry Blues and I'm sorry Light and I'm so sorry for every person that I couldn't get to in time. I just had to get it out. **

For Pad with love. Bird.


End file.
